Valerie S. Malmont Read online

  “That's grand,” she said. “You'll be hearing from me, Victoria.” She swept away, leaving me spluttering unheard protests.

  “I know how you feel about your name,” Ginnie said with a sympathetic smile. “She calls me Virginia all the time. Wrong name or not, you should feel flattered that she's approved you to be a temporary care provider. Not everyone is so honored.”

  I groaned. One more animal was all I needed. “Maybe nothing will come of it,” I said hopefully.

  “Not a chance,” Ginnie's look told me.

  “How about us two outsiders getting together some time soon?” Ginnie suggested. “We need to stand united against the closed circle of Lickin Creek's high society.”

  I thought a minute before answering. Ginnie's sense of humor was caustic, her snobbery was appalling, and her dedication to gossip was shameful, but I had to admit I found her amusing, perhaps because she was so different from most of the people I'd met in Lickin Creek. She reminded me of Alice Roosevelt, who also loved gossip and said, “If you can't say anything good about someone, sit next to me.”

  I'd already come to the conclusion that I needed to reinvent myself—be more sociable, not so much a loner. For most of my life, I'd moved about with my foreign service family, and friendship always meant saying goodbye. It had been easier to be aloof than to continually suffer the heartbreak of separation. In recent years, I'd worked at opening my heart to others, like my neighbor and good friend in New York, Murray. And then there was my budding relationship with Garnet Gochenauer—one of the two reasons I'd moved to Lickin Creek.

  The other reason, of course, was Alice-Ann, who'd been my best friend since college. It was because of her I'd first visited Lickin Creek, and she was a major factor in my decision to stay in town for six months as temporary editor of the Chronicle.

  Ironically, after I committed myself to moving closer to the two people I most loved, Garnet accepted a position with the foreign service, leaving me alone in Lickin Creek for at least six months.

  And I was truly alone, because something had come between Alice-Ann and me. She unreasonably blamed me for the loss of her fiance last fall, and we'd gone from sharing our deepest feelings to barely nodding when we passed on the street.

  I missed her dreadfully, and that's the real reason I decided to pursue a friendship with Ginnie. It would be nice to have a someone, once more, to do things with.

  “Sounds like fun,” I finally answered. “Want to do lunch someday this week?”

  “You sound like a typical New Yorker, Tori. I'd love to ‘do lunch,’ as you put it, but I'm on the high-school substitute-teacher list and can't make any plans ahead of time. Say, I've got an idea—since I moved here I've become quite fond of playing bingo. How about going to a game with me one night?”

  Bingo. It would be a new experience. “Sounds like fun. Uh-oh, the rehearsal's starting up again. I think I'll sneak out while I can.” At last I could get home to my cats and the evening I'd planned.

  The kitchen stools were at center stage once more. Oretta perched one hip on hers and tapped her foot impatiently while the others took their places.

  Ginnie reached for my coffee cup. “I'll call you.”

  I went up front to collect my coat and camera.

  The ladies were on stage and Oretta began to speak. “This day is called the feast of Christ, he's born this day and comes safe home.”

  Bernice continued. “We'll stand a-tiptoe when this day is named, and rouse him at the name of Christ.”

  Weezie said, “I will be brief, the noble son is …” Her voice trailed off as the double doors at the back of the hall burst open. All heads turned toward the dark, menacing giant filling the door frame, and who resembled the monster in the movie Frankenstein—the good, classic version starring Boris Karloff.

  The creature stepped inside, peeled off a heavy quilted blue down jacket, and became Luscious Miller, the town's only full-time policeman, and now, in Garnet's absence, acting police chief. His tall, scrawny frame had been enlarged to enormous proportions by the ill-fitting jacket. He was breathing hard and opened and closed his mouth several times as though struggling for air. I figured he was probably exhausted from doing his rounds on that new bicycle the borough council had decided he should ride to save the town money.

  When he finally managed to catch his breath, he squawked, “Emergency! Folks, we got a real big emergency on our hands!”

  After the squeals of surprise and exclamations of astonishment died down, Marvin Bumbaugh, who was the president of the borough council, moved forward and guided the gawky policeman to a chair. Luscious pulled off his knit cap and replaced three long strands of blond hair over his bald spot with shaking hands. We gathered around him in a semicircle.

  “What's up, Luscious?” the council president asked.

  “Missing kid, Marv. Playing with his cousins in the woods above Stinking Spring. Wandered away from them a couple of hours ago. When they came back alone, they said they thought he'd come home by himself. His mom called me 'bout ten minutes ago. Said she'd been all over the hills looking for him.”

  Oretta uttered a gasp and clutched at my arm. “My God! How dreadful! Who is it?”

  “Name's Kevin Poffenberger. He's only five years old.”

  Oretta's fingernails dug into my skin, but I hardly noticed the pain. My thoughts were with the five-year-old boy, alone and terrified in the snowy woods. He was the same age my brother Billy had been when he'd wandered away from me during that minute when I was inattentive—so much can happen in a minute. Would the child's cousins suffer guilt for the rest of their lives as I did?

  Murmurs from the crowd pulled me back to the present. Marvin looked from one face to another. “Anybody know him?”

  There was some discussion. Finally, one man said, “I do maintenance out to the Iron Ore Mansions Trailer Park near Stinking Spring. There's three or four trailers full of Poffenbergers out there. They got lots of kids 'tween them.”

  “What've you done?” Marvin asked Luscious. “Did you call the state police?”

  “Of course I did, Marv. They said for me to go ahead and get search parties started. Captain of the fire department's mobilizing his men right now.”

  I could tell by his shaking hands and nervous stammer that Luscious was already in over his head.

  Marvin's brow creased, and I assumed he knew even better than I how poorly prepared Luscious was to manage a tragedy.

  I opened my notebook and wrote down the commands as Marvin gave them.

  “Call for fire companies from Gettysburg and Mc-Connellsburg to come over. And see if we can borrow up that people-sniffing dog from Hagerstown.” Marvin turned to face the crowd. “We'll set up a command post at Corny's Feed Store, out at the junction of Iron Ore and Bright's Church roads. Who wants to be in charge of getting out the volunteers for a search party?”

  A gray-haired man raised his hand.

  “That's J. B. Morgan,” Ginnie whispered in my ear, “president of the Lickin Creek National Bank.”

  Marvin acknowledged him. “Good, J.B., go door-to-door if you have to. I want three, four hundred people up there within the hour. Get moving.”

  J.B. was already jamming his arms into his parka.

  “I'll be in charge of serving refreshments to the volunteers,” a woman offered. “At least until the fire company's ladies’ auxiliary can take over.”

  “That's Primrose Flack, wife of Trinity's minister,” Ginnie told me.

  “I know who she is,” I said, beginning to feel slightly annoyed with Ginnie. “She's on the borough council.” I wrote Primrose Flack's name in my notebook.

  “The token woman,” Ginnie said.

  “I'll help you, Primrose,” Oretta offered. “Come on, Weezie, grab the cookies and coffeepots and let's go. My God, that poor little boy … it's so cold, and so dark out there.”

  “I'd like to help, too. May I ride with you?” Ginnie asked Oretta. She shook her head despairingly. “What kind
of animals those cousins must be … deserting a little kid like that.”

  Oretta sighed. “They are probably very young and didn't know better. Let's go. We can stop at Dunkin’ Donuts on the way out of town. Matavious, you're still here! You are going with the men, aren't you? They might need a doctor.”

  “Of course, dearest. I only wanted to make sure you were taken care of first.” He scurried out the door without even bothering to put on his coat.

  “You coming, Tori?” Ginnie asked.

  I shook my head. My job was to put on my reporter's hat and interview the lost boy's parents. I dreaded turning back into one of those insensitive media pests who intrude into other people's grief. It was a role I'd never felt comfortable with.

  There was a noisy rush for the coatrack, and then the hall was quiet. Only some tipped-over chairs, a few white cups that hadn't quite made it into the trash cans, and the scattered evergreen branches on the floor indicated that a few minutes ago we'd been involved in preparations for a gala Christmas pageant.

  CHAPTER 2

  On a cold winter's night

  THE STREETS IN THE DOWNTOWN HISTORIC district were dark as I drove past the fountain in the square. In Lickin Creek, even the fast-food restaurants closed early. As my truck rattled over the brick-paved streets, I mentally rehearsed some questions I could ask the Poffenbergers about their missing child. Questions that I hoped would satisfy readers of the Chronicle, but wouldn't add to the family's anguish.

  I was near the Chronicle building, and a light shining from the front window caught my attention. The paper couldn't afford a large electric bill; I'd have to stop and “out the lights,” as a true Lickin Creek native would say. This wasn't a delaying tactic, I assured myself, but simply a necessary detour.

  Somehow, I maneuvered the truck down the dark alley without adding any more scrapes to either the truck or the buildings on either side and pulled into the slot marked EDITOR. That was a new enough experience to still give me a thrill.

  I paused for a second in the doorway of the narrow brick building to admire the shiny brass sign that said 1846. Polishing off a century of tarnish had been my first official duty as editor. As I reached for the door handle, I noticed something on the sill. Apparently, our janitorial service had forgotten a broom. I carried it inside.

  Cassie Kriner, the paper's only other full-time employee, was at her desk, nearly hidden behind stacks of yellowed paper and piles of bound newspapers. She glanced up over the top of her half-moon reading glasses, noticed the broom, and said, “Coming in to redd up the place?”

  “Found it on the stoop. Cleaning people must have dropped it.” I stood the broom in the corner.

  Sinking into the red imitation-leather sofa with chrome arms, a relic from the thirties, I said, “I saw the light in the window and thought I'd forgotten to turn it off.”

  “I came in as soon as I heard about the missing boy on my scanner,” Cassie said. She jumped to her feet and nearly stumbled over a large box on the floor next to her desk. “How about a cup of coffee?”

  I nodded. “Thanks. What's in the box?”

  Cassie's cheeks flushed, and it seemed to me she avoided my eyes as she filled two mugs from the freshly-made pot of coffee. “Something I ordered from the Home Shopping Network.” She fixed mine the way I like it—with a lot of artificial cream and sweetener—and brought it to me.

  “Better move it out of the way,” I suggested as I accepted the steaming mug. “Last thing we need is someone tripping over it and suing us.”

  “I will.” She changed the subject abruptly. “I've found some information about the Poffenbergers in our morgue. Thought you might need it for your article.”

  Although she spoke calmly, I could tell by the way she'd dressed how upset she was. Instead of one of her usual elegant cashmere suits with matching shoes and handbag, Cassie had thrown on paint-splattered slacks and a Lickin Creek centennial sweatshirt, and her silver- gray hair was drawn into a ponytail rather than the usual Grace Kelly-like French twist. She wore no makeup—a sure sign of distress. Despite all this, Cassie still looked like a million bucks, which actually was a lot less than what her late husband had left her.

  “Bless you. What've you got?”

  “There's a lot of Iron Ore Road Poffenbergers on the police blotter. It's a large family—and apparently they're all related. Nothing unusual: in the past year a few were picked up for DWI, one for making terrorist threats at the Crossroads Tavern, two for issuing bad checks, and one for discharging firearms within borough limits … and—oh my!” She began to laugh. “Did I really say nothing unusual? Here's one who was charged with …” She blushed. “It had to do with a goose. Shall I go on?”

  “I get the idea. Charming family.”

  “Salt of the earth.”

  “Thanks, Cassie. I don't know what I'd do without you.” I meant it, too. Once, when I'd goofed up the front page half an hour before it was due at the printers, I'd half-seriously threatened to throw myself off the Main Street Bridge. Cassie had made me laugh by reminding me that the creek under the bridge was only eighteen inches deep. Then, together, we'd repaired the damage.

  Almost daily, she single-handedly saved the Chronicle from disaster. P.J., the editor, once told me Cassie had come to work for the paper shortly after her husband had suffocated in a silo. I guess she wanted something worthwhile to do, since she surely didn't need the meager salary we paid her. With me at the editorial helm, her forty-hour work week had expanded to nearly eighty. She worked day and night without protest, except for one night a week, which was saved for her club meetings.

  I gulped down the last of my coffee. “I'm off,” I announced. “God, I hope by the time I get out to the Pof-fenbergers’ house the little boy will have come home.”

  “Better to hope the temperature doesn't drop.”

  The borough of Lickin Creek sits in a basin, surrounded by mountains of the Appalachian chain. The surrounding dark, hulking hills have been silent witnesses to the valley's history: the bloody turf battles between the Delawares and Iroquois; the arrival of the early settlers, who carved their farms out of the wilderness; the tragic battles with the Indians; the French and Indian War; the Revolutionary War; and the event that seemed freshest in the minds of most residents—the Civil War.

  In the daylight, covered with a soft lavender haze, the mountains were a landscape artist's dream. But at night, they looked menacing to me, especially when I had to drive into them. I could imagine how they might seem to five-year-old Kevin Poffenberger tonight.

  Stinking Spring was high in the mountain range to the south of town. Garnet's truck seemed to grow wider by the minute as I slowly inched it up the very narrow mountain road, which had been wrenched from the dense forest. I drove slowly, not only because I was nervous about the icy road and the steep drop-off—which I was—but because I was part of a long procession of cars, sport-utility vehicles, fire engines, ambulances, and trucks winding its way toward the place where Kevin Poffenberger had last been seen. It seemed as if everyone in Lickin Creek was headed up the mountain tonight.

  Despite the lack of a sign at the crossroads, I knew I was in the right place. Vehicles, more abandoned than parked, littered the fields on either side of the road. A sign over the weathered wooden building on the northeast corner announced that CORNY'S IS YOUR FRIENDLY FEED STORE. I was glad of that—who'd want to shop in an unfriendly feed store?

  A traffic director, somewhere on the leeward side of eighty, wearing a fluorescent orange vest, directed me with his flashlight beam to a parking place. The trucks, mine included, made a circle around a field, and in the center, like besieged travelers of a wagon train, were the support units for the rescue teams.

  In the light from a dozen campfires, volunteers were erecting tents where searchers could rest between shifts. Long tables bowed under the weight of the huge urns of coffee and trays of doughnuts, cookies, and sandwiches. Several steel watering troughs, with the name Corny's Feed Store on
the sides, held ice and canned sodas.

  Hundreds of people milled about, shouting orders, calling out names, asking for directions. They all were so bundled up in heavy clothing as to be unrecognizable. It warmed my heart to see the community's overwhelming response to an emergency.

  I stopped a navy-blue parka and asked if it had seen Luscious. The silver-fox fur on the hood bounced vigorously as it nodded and pointed toward the largest of the tents on the edge of the encampment.

  “Hey, Luscious,” I said as I lifted the canvas flap and peeked inside. “Any news?”

  The acting police chief looked up from where he sat at a folding card table on which were three cellular phones, piles of yellow legal pads, a stack of topographical maps, and a flickering kerosene lamp. His pale face was drawn, his eyes red. “Hi, Tori. I'm glad you're here. Come in and sit down.”

  I sat across from him on a metal chair, the coldness of which seeped through the double layers of my wool slacks and thermal underwear.

  “I've tried to think of everything, but I'm scared to death I forgot something.” His usually bland face was creased with worry. “Look this over and tell me what you think.”

  He handed me a yellow lined pad on which he had printed a checklist in childlike block letters. He gnawed on the eraser of his pencil while I read through it.

  Garnet had not only been Luscious's boss, but also his father figure. The young policeman had depended on him for guidance, professionally and in his personal affairs. When Garnet had left Luscious in charge of the public safety of Lickin Creek, he'd shown, in my opinion, a surprisingly large amount of faith and an equal amount of poor judgment. Gradually, over the past month, Luscious had taken to dropping in at my office several times a day with questions on police procedure. It took me a little while before I realized Luscious had chosen me as his mentor by virtue of my relationship with Garnet.

  “Looks fine to me, Luscious,” I assured him. “Garnet couldn't have done better.” I wondered how much of the plan had been suggested by Marvin Bumbaugh, the council president, but that wasn't of any real importance. What was important was that the search had been well organized.